Chapter Text
The sky is bright enough to hurt.
James registers this distantly, somewhere between the roar of the stands and the scream of the wind in his ears. As his broom bucks beneath him and the snitch flashes gold just ahead—-too fast, always just too fast. He laughs, breathless, exhilarated, because this is the part he loves: the chase, the almost, the way the world narrows to instinct and nerve.
He’s not alone.
Deep green flashes beside him—presice, controlled, infuriatingly elegant. Slytherin’s Seeker flies like he was born knowing exactly how much space he needs, how close in too close. He doesn’t barrel or bluster. He waits. He feints just enough to make James commit, then darts away, dark hair plastered to his forehead from sweat, mouth curved like he’s enjoying himself.
James grins, wild and unthinking, and pushes harder
They spiral downward, chasing the same impossible gleam. The snitch veers sharply left. James follows on reflex, nearly colliding with the Seeker as they cut the same line. For a split second they are shoulder to shoulder, close enough that James can see the concentration is the other boy’s eyes, the flicker of something like amusement.
Oh, James thinks , delighted. You’re enjoying this.
The snitch shudders. James dives.
The Seeker reaches too—but James has momentum, recklessness, the sun at his back. His fingers stretch and close around warm metal, and the stadium detonates with sound.
“James Potter catches the snitch! Securing the win for Gryffindor!” the announcer shouts.
James barely hears it at first—just noise, pure and overwhelming, crashing into him as he pulls up hard, fist clenched around the Snitch. Gryffindor red surges to its feat. His name blurs into the roar, indistinguishable from laughter and cheers in the wild, reckless joy of winning now, when it mattered.
He whoops, throws his arm up, nearly tips himself sideways from the force of it.
He lands against chaos.
Someone slams into him from the side—Sirius, laughing like he’s just survived something miraculous, arms wrapping around James’s shoulders hard enough to jolt the breath from him.
“You absolute legend,” Sirius shouts, voice hoarse with adrenaline.
“Merlin, Prongs, thank the gods you caught it when you did.”
“We were fine, Pads.” James grins, bright and unthinking.
“We were not fine,” Sirius says fervently, pulling back just long enough to look at him properly, eyes still blazing.
“They were gaining. You saw it. Another minute and—” he cuts himself off, laughing instead, claps James on the back.
“Doesn’t matter. You saved our skins.”
Marlene Mckinnon cuts through them like a blade.
“That’s Captain saved our skins,” she corrects sharply, but she's smiling, wide and fierce, blood on her knuckle from where she’s already checked someone else. She grabs James by the front of his jersey and yanks him in just long enough to thump her forehead against his and sigh.
“Perfect timing Potter,” she says. “Textbook. Don’t ever do it differently”
“I wouldn't dream of it.” James salutes, ridiculously.
There’s a sharp whistle from Hooch, the sound slicing through the field. A sketchy stretcher appears on the far side of the pitch. Green robes, a Beater down hard, someone clutching their leg at the wrong angle. The crowd”s cheer shutters, reshapes itself into concern.
“Oof, that looks nasty.” Sirius winces nodding over to the student.
Marlene’s already moving, barking orders, momentum never breaking as she halls Sirius with her.
“Clear space. Give her room.”
James hands over the Snitch to McGonagall without ceremony, still riding the high, still smiling like nothing in the world could touch him. Someone presses a water bottle in his hands, he takes a swig, barely tasting it.
“You good?” A teammate assures.
“Brilliant.” James nods immediately.
And he is. Not a worry in sight. The injury registeres only as background noise, something happening elsewhere, to someone else. The world is perfectly in his favor.
While attention shifts; toward Madam Pomfrey, toward the fallen player, James's gaze drifts, searching.
Green robes. Dark hair. A familiar line of shoulders slipping away from the noise. His heart kicks, sharp and interested.
James slips out when no one is looking.
~
The grounds are quieter on the other side of the pitch, the noise muffles by distance and stone. James circles the side of the stadium, following with nothing but instinct, until he spots a familiar figure half-hidden near the ivy-covered wall.
The boy stands with his back to the stone, one knee bent, a cigarette between his fingers like it belongs there. His robes hanging loose over his jersey, Shirt untucked, green and silver dulled by shadow. He looks…calm. Untouched. Like the game didn’t affect him at all.
James slows. Then stops a few feet away.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Smoke curls into the afternoon air. The boy doesn’t look surprised to see him—just lifts his eyes, sharp and assessing, like he’d been expecting this.
“Good game,” James says finally, the worlds rougher than he means them to be.
The boy exhales smoke through his nose. “Fuck off.”
The accent is faint but it's there, softening the edges. French, maybe. James smiles despite himself.
He reaches into his pocket without thinking, pulls out his own cigarette. It's crushed at one end, saved for Drunk James at the celebratory party. He holds it up between two fingers.
“Got a light?”
The boy watches him for a long second. The silence stretches—not hostile, just…measured. Then, with a quick click, he flicks his lighter and steps forward.
Close enough now that James can smell the smoke, something sharp and sweet beneath it.
James leans in, cupping his hand. Their fingers brush. The flame flares, brief and intimate, lighting the boy’s face in a warm gold.
James exhales. Feels it settle in his chest.
“Didnt know Gryffindors smoked,” the boy says, stepping back.
James shrugs.
“Didn’t know Slytherins use muggle lighters.”
The boy huffs a laugh despite himself, quick and gone. "Touche," He looks away, grey eyes tracking the sky, the empty stretch where the snitch had disappeared.
“You fly well,” he says, grudging. “For someone so…loud.”
James grins. “You kept up”
A beat.
The boy glances back at him then, something unreadable in his expression. Not anger. Not admiration. Something sharper. Quieter.
“Hm?” James adds, because he can’t help himself.
The boy snorts. “Idiot.”
They smoke in silence after that, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, the air between them charged with things they won't say. James watches the way the boy tilts his head back when he exhales, the way the smoke ghosts past his mouth. He thinks—absurdly—that chasing the snitch felt a lot like this: the thrill of almost, the want for more.
The cigarette burns down to its end.
The boy taps ash against the stone and crushes it under his heels without emotion. James follows a second later, flicking his own away, watching the thin line of smoke unravel into nothing.
“Well,” James says, because it feels like something should be said.
The boy hums, noncommittal. He pushes off the wall, straightening his robes, already half-turned away.
“Good flying,” he adds, after a beat. Not looking at James this time.
James’s mouth curves before he can stop it.
“You too.”
The boy pauses—just long enough to register it—then keeps walking, disappearing back toward the castle without another word.
James stands there longer than he needs to, the afternoon sun reflecting off the distant grass, bright and thoughtless. The roar of the pitch feels distant now, like something he’s already risen above.
That was nice, he thinks, a little dazed.
Not dangerous. Not complicated. Just—easy.
He turns back eventually, heart still light, already chasing the feeling upward, unaware of how close to the sun he’s willing to fly just to feel it again.